


I've No Right to Take My Place in the Human Race

by SOMETHINREAL



Series: Now I Know How Joan of Arc Felt [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Dubious Consent, Gang Leader! Rich, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pain Kink, Pre-Slash, almost definitely OOC, i mean like, it could be worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 18:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMETHINREAL/pseuds/SOMETHINREAL
Summary: The Westenders have their own secret weapon.An ‘unbreakable’ man.Richard finds that ridiculous.(alternatively: no one's ever broken taron before. richard's never tried, though.)





	I've No Right to Take My Place in the Human Race

**Author's Note:**

> so! this is a mess and based off a hc I had written years ago. I was inspired by both teddy smith and eggsy for taron's characterization in this because both are dumb crazy bottoms and ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> completely self-indulgent, but most works are.   
> this will be part of a series, most likely w/ three parts as one shots that show the building of an actual relationship of some kind, but it is not in the works yet.   
> last but not least, un beta'd. very poorly edited.   
> title from bigmouth strikes again by the smiths

Gang rivalries are normal, and they’re always the same drivel. Turf wars. Who owns this, who owes that. It’s all very bothersome and time consuming and in all honesty Richard just wishes that he could go a day without having to find out about a two-timing cronie stealing money or how someone across the seas is not happy about a share. He supposes it is his job after all, dealing with this and that, ordering people around giving them a run for their money. 

It’s not as if he enjoys it or anything, the constant stream of issue after issue thrown his way. He especially does not enjoy a particular rivalry that has arisen for the first time in a while. His gang on the east side, the other, on the west. Always picking a fight about one thing or another. That gang going on about stolen something or other, Richard countering. It gets so boring sometimes. He wishes crime was what it used to be: a gunfight, a fistfight, a fight in general to settle things. Not this: fucking paperwork and empty threats. 

Well. Not entirely empty. One of the rival gang’s cronies hit Richard with their car, so Richard threatened to get back at them. And he did. By driving a car through the front window of the leader’s club. 

Never mind the logistics of it, the point is, things used to be so much easier when Richard was a fresh face, when things ended properly and didn’t have to be so drawn out. 

But this time, things are different. The Westenders have dirt on Richard, and he needs to know what before they blab it to other gangs and get him buried deeper and ruin his career for good. If that happens, he’s as good as mince.

The worst part: Westenders have their own secret weapon.

An ‘unbreakable’ man. 

There are stories about him, sure. That many people have gotten him, tied him up, beaten him, tazed, cut, broken, hung him from his ankles, but nothing worked. All his replies were cocky comments and sarcastic quips. Coincidentally, he happens to be the only person the leader of the Westsiders tells anything to, which is why he’s an infamous little challenge between gangs. Nobody has actually bothered killing him, it would be futile. Killing him wouldn’t get anybody anywhere. They just let him go after a while of watching him amusedly rock back and forth in the chair. 

It seems ridiculous, actually, the fact that they not only have an ‘unbreakable’ member, but that he’s also referred to as their secret weapon. 

In fact, Richard didn’t believe it at all. He’d laughed. Everyone has a breaking point, he’d said. Not this one, someone had said back. It was bold and they'd assumed that Richard wouldn’t slap the look off of their face if it stayed there any longer. Of course he does. Sarcastic, bored. You just have to find out what it is.

Richard is determined. He’s going to break that man if it’s the last thing he does. 

(Which it very well might be, but let it be said: if that is the case, Richard will not go down without a fight.)

-

Taron wakes up disoriented and bound to a chair in a place he can’t give a name to. It could be a warehouse or it could be the empty basement of a club. His vision is fuzzy when he looks around, but he can see the outline of three or four men around through his cloudy eyes. He can’t recall the events that got him here; but he assumes it has to do with the throbbing at the back of his head and the dried blood that comes from his nose. 

When he fully regains consciousness, he grins at them, lopsided. “‘Ello, boys. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He gets slapped for that, and he doesn’t even flinch. 

“Alright,” he says. He would raise his hands if they weren’t bound behind his back and tied to either leg of the chair. “No pleasantries, that’s fine. I do want to know why I’m bound to this horridly uncomfortable chair though. What’d my boss tell me?” It's cheeky, and he knows it.

“We don’t know,” Cronie #1 says, through a snarl. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

“Well it would be helpful to know who the fuck we’re talking about then, eh? Not that I’m gonna tell you, regardless.” Another slap. This one comes from Cronie #2, backhanded, and it stings so good. 

“Richard Madden. Ring any bells?” 

Taron pretends to think, but he knows who he is. Everyone knows who that is. He’s the biggest club owner in the whole Eastside. He’s got the looks of a million dollar playboy, the attention of one, but he’s a gangster, raw and dirty and he won’t let anyone get in his way. Taron’s never had the pleasure of meeting him, and if the circumstances were different, and they weren’t practically enemies, Taron wouldn’t mind being one of the boys he’s infamous for taking to the penthouse. 

“A few, yeah.” It’s cocky, snide, like every other word that leaves his mouth. Another slap. Taron almost rolls his eyes. This is getting quite boring. “I know ‘im. Eastsiders then, eh? The shit we have on you.” Cronie #3 gets in on it now, punching him square in the jaw, and yeah, it hurts, but it’s nothing. 

“Look,” Cronie #1 says. “You’re going to tell us what you know and what they plan to do or else we’re going to make this all look like a fever dream.”

Taron yawns, bored. “Okay.” 

Another slap, followed by a punch which splits his eyebrow. “Just spit it out,” Cronie #2 barks. “We ain’t got all night. Tell us what you know or else.” 

Taron laughs a little. This is probably the most lacklustre torture he’s ever received. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, boys. You may not have all night but I could go for days. It’s baby food, this is. Honestly, you’re wasting my time more than I am yours.” 

So they slap him around a little, make him bleed, cut his lip, break a tooth. Cronie #2 take it upon himself to hit him with the barrel of his gun, and yeah, that fucking hurts, but it’s nothing to make Taron want to give up so easy. They’re really just focusing on his face and honestly, he’s not called unbreakable for nothing. They must get bored of it eventually, because after a half hour or so one of them says: “You better talk soon, brat, or we’ll bring boss down to play with you. You wouldn’t want that would you?” and then the rest of them chorus in agreement. 

And who’s to say Taron doesn’t want that? As far as first meetings go, getting beaten up by Richard Madden himself sounds pretty good. It’d be exciting. “Maybe you should,” Taron says. “Perhaps he should come down then. Show you useless tossers how to rough up a boy proper.” The barrel of the gun connects with his cheek again, splitting it, the force of it making the gelatinous concoction of blood and saliva pooling fly from his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he notices Cronie #1 walk up the stairs. 

Taron grins, lopsided and wild. He has a long night ahead of him.

-

Rushed footsteps bring Richard’s gaze away from where he’s been cleaning his gun. He glances upwards, unhurried, despite the discontent on one of his cronies' faces. “What is it?” he asks, returning his attention to his gun. He runs the cloth over the barrel until it’s sleek and spotless. The cronie fumbles for a moment. “Well come one then, spit it out. I haven’t got all day.”

“We’re at the point of giving up, sir,” he croaks. 

Richard stops, places his gun on the bar. His eyes flick up slowly. “I’m sorry?”

“We–”

“No, I heard you the first time,” he says, calm, despite the anger boiling in his veins. “I just wanted to make sure you understood what you just said to me.”

“Sir–”

“No,” Richard barks. “You do not get to walk up those stairs and come into my club and try to tell me that you give up. Your job is not to give up, your job is to do as I say and that, you are currently not doing. What you are doing is getting on my nerves and I can assure you that you do not want to get on my nerves. Now, before you try to weasel your way out of anything, I am going to ask you to explain to me what the situation is, and I hope you choose your next words wisely.”

The cronie gulps, wringing his hands nervously. “Well, you see, sir, them rumours are true, they are–”

“I did not ask for what rumours are true, I asked you to explain to me the situation.”

“He won’t break, sir, only laughs when we threaten or hit ‘im. Threatened to let you ‘ave a go at ‘im but he only said that we should, cuz’ it’ll show us how to do it better. Cocky bastard he is–”

Richard raises a hand, and the cronie shuts up. “Am I to understand that you volunteered me to go and get my hands dirty?”

Cronie’s eyes widen. “Not me, sir it was–”

“I don’t care who it was,” Richard says dismissively. He ponders briefly, what it would hurt to have a little fun. Then he grins. “Oh, I do love to get my hands dirty, though.” The cronie looks relieved, but not for long. “You’re not off the hook, especially since you just tried to throw someone under the bus. I thought I’d taught you better than that. You greet guests if they come in. And finish cleaning my gun. I want it spotless. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Oh, how interesting this is going to be. 

-

Richard is almost exactly what Taron had expected. Polished but rugged looking. His tie is loose around his neck and his hair is falling out of place from where Taron assumes it had been quaffed properly sometime prior to this little standoff of theirs. They haven’t spoken yet. Richard is watching him: a buzzing hawk to his prey, hardly even cocking an eyebrow at the crooked smile Taron throws him, all bloody teeth and madness behind his eyes. 

“You,” he says, points to Cronie #2. “Go upstairs with Jack. And you,” a finger in Cronie #3’s direction, “you make sure no one bothers me for the night. I don’t care what the issue is. Deal with it yourself. Bring me a whisky while you’re at it.”

An echo of yes, boss, resounds, and then the two of them are alone. 

Taron remembers, offhandedly, that first time he’d seen Richard in peron. It had been at one of those parties, earlier in the year, perhaps. Taron had been younger, not as well known among the lowlifes. He’d seen Richard across the way, all strong and well put together. He hadn’t talked to him, then, and he hasn’t talked to him any of the times he’s seen him after that. That was then, though. Now, Taron is strapped to a chair in the basement of his club, awaiting whatever treatment Richard is going to give him.

“So,” he says. He’s walking circles around Taron, now. Taron follows him with his whole head, curious. “You’ve got dirt on me, have you?”

Taron shrugs. “A little, yeah.”

“A little, eh? From what I’ve heard, it’s enough to ruin my career. And you’re one of the only ones who knows it, ‘cept for your boss, but she’s practically untouchable. Do you know how hard it was to find you?” 

Taron shrugs again, eyes fixated on the way Richard saunters around him. “I dunno.”

“Humour me.”

“How long?” 

Richard is generally surprised at how he plays along, considering the way Jack had come upstairs. He cocks an eyebrow. “Not long at all. In fact, you were easy. One of my boys just happened to walk into a bar and there you were. Drunk as a skunk. Followed him to the back alley. Fucking easy, you were.”

“One of your boys?” Taron asks, pushing his luck. “Or one of your boys?” It’s no big news that Richard prefers male attention and that he often has someone on his arm. However, no one actually has the balls to bring it up to his face. It’s simply something you don’t do, because of the negative repercussions you’d face. 

Richard comes close, grabs Taron’s face by his chin and tilts upwards. He doesn’t say anything, but he stares, deep and hard until Taron feels it burning through him. And then, Taron spits on the bridge of his nose ‘cause he feels like it. Richard’s recoil is delayed, unamused. He wipes it with his thumb, but the blood stains. He then sighs, and punches Taron so hard in the gut that he doubles over. Or, doubles over as best he can tied to a chair. It knocks the wind out of him, and he splutters. 

“I was hoping that I could say tell me what you know, and I’ll let you off easy, but it’s clear you’re going to be difficult for me, too.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Taron asks as he sits up again. “I want scars to remember this by.”

“Scars, eh?” But he doesn’t elaborate. He looks over Taron, once, twice. “I’ve heard the stories about you,” he says. “Unbreakable. My men had to come up and tell me that you weren’t budging. That you wanted me to come and show how it’s really done. But you know what? I don’t do what they like to do. I like to get my hands dirty, sure, but I don’t like doing all the work myself. This,” he gestures between them, “is boring. You can’t even put up a fight. What am I to do, hit you until you tell me? Clearly pain doesn’t work on you, or else you wouldn’t be a secret weapon. It’s not like you’re scared, either.”

“You can be scary, I s’pose,” Taron shrugs. He’s not lying, either. He’s seen Richard mad, mad beyond the point of extremities and it’s terrifying in that thrilling kind of way. But this, no, this isn’t scary. Taron had been in this situation countless times before. This is like a breeze. In all honesty, he’d expected more. “But nah, m'not scared.” 

“I didn’t think so.” 

From upstairs comes Cronie #3 with a glass of whisky. He hands it to Richard without a sound, and Richard doesn’t say thank you. He sips it diligently, like he’s trying to savour it. The cronie leaves. 

“Are you going to do something to me? I’m getting bored sitting here like this if all you’re going to do is monologue and drink whisky.” Richard must not like that, because he narrows his eyes as he places his glass down and saunters towards Taron. 

“You want me to do something to you? To force it out of you?” Taron just looks at him, so Richard wraps his hands around Taron’s throat and squeezes. Taron splutters, not expecting it, and tries to breathe. “You’re so cocky. You know that? Everyone has a breaking point, it’s that no one has found yours yet, eh?” Taron coughs. He can feel his face growing more and more red, tears gathering in his eyes. “I could kill you,” he says, like he’s actually considering it. “I could squeeze the life out of you right now if I wanted to. I bet you no one would even care.”

“But you won’t,” Taron splutters out, “you wouldn’t get anything out of it. You need me.”

Richard squeezes harder once before letting go completely. “You’re right, I won’t. But I don’t need you, I just need the information out of you, don’t I? You don’t mean anything to me.” Taron coughs and takes deep breaths to regain composure. He watches with blurry eyes as Richard takes another sip of his drink, eyes him up again. In return, he watches Taron wipe his eyes on his shoulders. His white shirt is stained red and stuck to his skin with perspiration, now damp from his tears. 

“So what? You’re not going to beat me up, and you won’t kill me, so what are you going to do?”

Richard takes him by the hair and yanks him upwards. “I’m going to break you. I’m going to find what makes you tick and ruin you so I can get what I need.” Richard pulls, hard, and Taron makes this little noise from the back of his throat. To any dumb cronie or cloudy-minded gangster it could pass of as any other sound of pain. But Richard knows what that was. 

And oh, oh. Richard thinks he gets it. 

This is certainly going to make things more interesting. 

He walks circles around him, again, once he lets go. “When people told me about you, I laughed. Unbreakable, they said, no one could ever crack you. Buy why? Everyone has a breaking point. So pain doesn’t affect you, but you’ve got to have something. I think I know just the thing. Why you’ve been so hard to figure out. You’ve got a breaking point too, ain’t you?”

Taron shrugs. “Sure, I guess.” 

“You know, I’m quite observational. I notice things that most people wouldn’t. All those other people who have tried to break you by beating harder, doing more elaborate things. They don’t really pay attention to why what they’re doing isn’t working. But I do, Taron.”

This kid is a fucking painslut, and everyone else has been to blind to see it. 

“What are you talking about?” Taron asks, furrowing his eyebrows together. Richard tries hard to hide his grin, but he’s failing and he knows it. He can’t believe that no one has figured it out yet. In fact, it’s actually kind of obvious. 

“You like it,” he states, matter of factly. “The pain. It gets you off. That’s why it doesn’t do anything. It’s why you don’t budge. Because you like getting thrown about. You like getting beat.”

Taron doesn’t say anything for a moment, trying to decide his best choice of words. “That’s not true,” he settles on finally, even though it is very much true. 

“No?” Richard questions, finally stopping in front of him. “Then what’s with the stiffy you’ve got in your trousers?” He’d noticed it when he’d walked down the stairs, tucked it into his mind for later, when he was sure. Taron presses his legs together, trying to hide it, but he can’t with his legs tied to the chair. 

“I’m not–I don’t–!” For the first time, Taron is not cocky, he’s not sarcastic, he looks frantic. Richard is grinning now. Oh this is certainly a nice development. 

“Don’t lie to me. You like it. This is all a big wet dream for you isn’t it?” He doesn’t respond, so Richard lifts his foot and presses the toe of his oxfords to the tent in Taron’s trousers. He isn’t sure what he was expecting but it’s certainly not what ever the fuck sound slips out from Taron’s mouth. He looks like he wants to disappear so bad. Richard is thriving off of it, off of his shame, off of the red on his face that brings out the blooming purple and blue. He presses hard enough to hurt, before he pulls away. 

Richard downs the alcohol in one swig and places the glass on the table. Then, he lifts a hand to Taron’s face. “The boys did a number on you, didn’t they?” He runs his thumb over Taron’s cheek, pulls on the cut caused by the gun. Taron hisses in pain, but doesn’t flinch away. In fact, he leans into it. This fucking kid. “Shame they focused all the attention up here.” He digs his thumb in a few of the bigger cuts, reopens his split lip, presses hard on the quick-forming bruises. 

“Alright,” Taron huffs out. “You know something about me, so what are you going to do?” 

“I don’t like to repeat myself. You’ll figure it out.”

He crouches down so that he’s between Taron’s legs. Richard hands move to Taron’s trousers with no hesitance; with a certain calmness he shouldn’t have. The button is first, then the fly, then Richard pulls him out through the hole in his briefs. It’s only now that Taron asks again: What are you doing?

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Something that really doesn’t look like torture.”

“No?” Richard asks. 

He reaches up, shoving three fingers into where Taron’s mouth had been open. He’s expecting him to bite, and is surprised when he doesn’t. Richard pushes them in far enough that it makes Taron gag. He presses down on his tongue until they’re thoroughly coated in spit, then he uses it to slick up Taron’s length. He takes it into his hand and gives him long, slow strokes. Richard glances up, and Taron is biting his lip, like he’s trying to be quiet. 

“So what would you do?” Richard asks, like he hasn’t got a cock in his hand, like he’s not hatched a plan to get this kid to give up the information, like it’s completely fine and normal. “After they let you out. Would you do this? Get yourself off as soon as your hands were free?” 

Taron makes a noise, and it’s confirmation enough. 

“Yeah? Bet you didn’t even wait ‘til you got home. Just squeezed yourself into a dark space in a back alley and shoved a hand down your pants.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Richard gets up from his crouching position and grabs Taron’s jaw. He grips it with the same force that he grips the length of him, that of which makes Taron squeak. “Don’t speak to me like that, you brat.”

And that’s that, unexpectedly. 

Taron, who is known to be loud mouthed and bossy and unafraid of foul treatment at the hands of henchmen and goons, shuts his mouth right up. So he’s one of these, then, too. Richard can work with this. In fact, it makes what he’s planning even easier. He starts stroking again, with intent this time. He goes until Taron is shifting in the chair, making this small, almost inaudible sounds from the back of his throat. Richard only pulls away what he can see Taron’s toes dig into the concrete like he’s trying to ground himself. 

Taron pants, looks at Richard indignantly, but says nothing. 

When he’s calmed, Richard starts to move his hand again. And again, when Taron shows signs that he’s close, Richard stops, pulls his hand away. 

“Okay, what the fuck,” Taron says. “Why did you stop?”

Richard looks at him quizzically. “Oh!” he says. “You didn’t actually think I was going to let you come, did you?” Taron’s eyes widen. “What kind of torture would this be if I actually made you feel good?”

He takes Taron into his hand once more, strokes him slow, deliberate. Taron regains physical composure. “That’s fine,” Taron says, even though everything his voice conveys the fact that it’s not fine. “Just like I said to your men: I can last all night.”

“We’ll see about that.” 

By the fifth time Richard brings him to the edge and doesn’t let him fall, Taron is panting. He’s trying hard not to make any noises, as though he thinks Richard can’t see through his facade. Every time Richard will give him a pinch, a scratch, dig his nails into his thighs, Taron will give a low, drawn out moan. 

“This could be over so soon,” Richard says, like he’s trying to coax the truth out of a lying child. His hand slows down, his touch lightens until Taron is struggling not to keep himself glued to the chair. “You could get what you want, I can get what I want. It’s a win-win, you know that.”

“I’m not telling you shit– fuck.” Taron needs to cut himself off when Richard brings him to the edge once more, then squeezes him, tight. It’s effective in stopping Taron from coming, which is getting so frustrating. “I ain’t telling you nothing.”

“But you want it, don’t you?” Taron doesn’t respond. He doesn’t trust himself not to sound a mess if he responds. “I’m just wondering when it is you’ll lose your resolve.”

“Strong chance it won’t happen.”

“We’ll see.”

Eventually, ten times turns into fifteen, which turns into twenty, which turns into forty minutes of this edging. Taron is trembling in full-bodied shakes at this point. He's so close that two featherlight strokes is enough to have him feel the start of it, from which he is pulled away. It’s like Richard knows his body so well despite never having even been near it. He knows when Taron’s calmed from it, where to touch, how much pressure to give, when to take it away. It’s infuriating.

Richard’s taken the liberty of getting a bottle of lube from god knows where, so now it’s properly slick and is bordering on too good. 

And Taron, Taron is dying.

He feels like every time he gets close, every pore on his body pushes out a new bead of sweat. His toes cramp where they dig into the floor, and he’s sure he’s left bruises on the palms of his hands where his nails dig in. He’s also vaguely aware that he might be crying, but he can’t tell if it’s tears or he’s just sweating that much. 

Never in his life has he wanted something more than how much he wants to let go. His head is cloudy with arousal so much so that he almost wants to give in. 

Giving in would be so easy. Even though Richard is very likely a lying, conniving, sociopath, Taron knows that if he were to give in to it and spill what he knows, that Richard would let him have it. He knows for a fact that if he makes a deal, he will go through with it. And that, is what is tempting about giving in for the first time ever. 

Because Taron does not give up so easily. He has said he could go for days, and it’s true. However, no one has ever tried something like this. Nobody has ever bothered to look deeper into it. They always beat harder until they break bones and get frustrated when they can’t get anything out of it. Taron could handle that. This feels almost worse, in a sickly, spine-tingling kind of way. 

And perhaps the worst part of it, is that Taron can feel himself slipping, too. The part of him that always stays grounded, always helps him keep a calm head and a clear mind is floating away. All that he can feel is Richard on him, around him. It’s most likely because something of this sort has always been a sick sort of fantasy for Taron. To be one of the boys he takes to his room, to have him for a night. But he’d always been stuck eyeing him from afar. Always close enough to see but not enough to grab his attention. Now that he’s getting it, he’s not sure how he feels. 

“Does it hurt?” Richard asks, rhetorically. His accent is impossibly thick. It makes Taron’s head swirl. “You could have it, you know.”

“Just–” Taron shifts his hips away from the ghost feeling of Richards hands and screws up his face. “Ugh.”

“Don’t you want it?” 

Yes, Taron wants to scream. It's like I’m going to die, I want it so bad, and pleasepleaseplease. Naturally he says none of this. Naturally, he says: “Mmm’No.”

“No?” Richard repeats. “‘No’ what?”

“M’not telling you anything,” he is aware that he is slurring, but does not care. 

“You are tough, hmm?” It’s condescending, but it makes Taron feel something, all the same. “Unbreakable, though? I don’t know.”

It hurts now. And he knows that he likes that, but not like this. He likes being slapped around, beaten a little, sure, but he can’t stand this. It's an uncomfortable throb that never ceases, like the headache you get at the back of your head when your sinuses act up. He feels all restless, can’t stop squirming. Everything is so sensitive, so tight, like his skin is too small for his body. 

What would happen if he gave up? If he told Richard the information? He couldn’t go back to his own gang, they would shun him, kick him out, kill him, even. He doesn't have any money. All his accommodations were made through the Westenders. So what is he to do? Find a squat? Live in the streets? Stay with Richard and join the Eastsiders? It’s unlikely that he’ll even consider it. Even letting him stay here, in the basement. Probably couldn’t trust him. 

He is monumentally fucked. 

“Okay,” he says, passive, breaking. It’s not like Richard would ever give up. No point in fighting it any longer, he supposes. 

“Okay?” Richard questions. 

“I’ll fucking tell you, just– please– can you– please.” he can’t seem to force the words out, his throat dry, eyes stinging with tears again. 

“Yeah,” Richard says. “I can. But you need to talk to me first.”

So Taron does. He explains what they have on Richard, what they plan on doing with it, when they plan on executing it, the words flowing out of him with an unexpected ease. And truth be told, he doesn’t even feel bad about it. In fact, it feels like a relief. 

“That’s it?” Taron nods. It's one swift movement with urge. “All of it.”

“Yes,” he says. Richard nods in return, curt. Then, he starts moving his hand again, with intent this time. Taron can’t help the sound that comes out of him, it feels so fucking good. He’s so close. “Oh, shit,” he hisses, sucking in air through his teeth. His hips kick upwards on their own accord, his thighs trembling. “Please tell me this isn’t a trick.”

Richard smiles up at him, endeared at how ruined he sounds. “Of course not, love. We made a deal, remember? You gave me what I want, now it’s my turn to pay up. You can let go when you’re ready.” 

White clouds his vision. It’s like a cold rubber band snapping. He can feel so much, but at the same time he can feel almost nothing, something of a cry leaving his mouth as he finally, finally lets go. He just about blacks out at the feeling of it all. 

When Taron comes to, he’s been cleaned up: his skin no longer sticky and his face no longer covered in the stiff, cakey dried blood. His hands and feet are no longer bound to the chair, either. He rolls his wrists, listening to the crack of his joints. Taron examines the marks both the ropes and his nails left in his skin, notes that they’ll probably bruise. There’s a calm, sated feeling that washes through him, despite where he is and what will likely come next. 

“Welcome back,” comes Richard’s voice. Taron glances up, and he sees that Richard’s pulled up a chair and is sitting across from him. He says nothing, blinks once, slow. Richard hands him a stack of folded fabric. “Here. Since your clothes are covered in blood and cum that I couldn’t get out. I felt like changing your clothes while you weren’t awake was an invasion of privacy and personal space.”

“You kidnapped me, had your men beat me up, and then shoved a hand in my trousers but changing me is an invasion?” Taron asks, but there’s no bite. He peels off his shirt, which sticks to his skin in places and makes him clench his teeth. There’s a large bruise on his side, but it’s nothing too serious. He drops the old shirt on the floor, and it lands with an almost-wet noise. Freshly clothed, Taron says, “Thanks for cleaning me up. All things considered.”

Richard shrugs. 

Taron can’t fathom why Richard is being nice to him. Well, nice is a subjective word. He can’t fathom why instead of throwing him out the back alley, he’d cleaned him, brought him clothes, is talking to him. 

“Look,” Richard says. “You do realize you can’t go back to the West End, right?” Yeah, he knows. He’s had this internal dilemma already. “That boss of yours. I wouldn’t put it past her to do bad things to you. They’ll kill you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What I’m saying is, you could stay here,” Richard says. “In the East End. I would see that you're protected until you can find a suitable place for yourself. Away from it. Until things cool off.”

Taron narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I’m not actually a heartless bastard,” Richard tells him. A pause. “Think about it.”

Taron shakes his head. “Don’t need to. I’ll take you up on that.” He’s not even sure why he’s agreeing. Most likely because he’ll take anything he can get. Anything is better than the streets or being killed. 

“Right,” Richard says, standing from his chair. He begins to walk to the stairs. “Come along, then.”

Without better judgement, Taron follows.


End file.
